The Lotus Eater
by Cimbeline
Summary: A collection of Harry Potter ficlets. Many of these are the first chapters of stories that may or may not come to fruition. Pairings include Dramione, Drarry, possibly RemusxSirius later.
1. The Unknowable Room

The Lotus Eater

By Manthara

Summary: She sighed softly, and looked up, whistling a pure note. A small stream of swirling blue color swam up into the forest canopy directly above her, then split and merged as it fell back to the earth, forming a faintly pulsing web, a protection dome.

Draco slumped tiredly against a rough tree stump in the middle of the darkening forest, its ebony roots lulling him into slumber. He moved his arm backwards, and opened his eyes briefly; no one around. He could rest here. For a short while, anyway.

He slept.

xxx

Hermione Granger stalked slowly through a particularly vegetated patch of trees, her eyes squinted, hawklike. Her wand was drawn sharply, vigilantly, and she swept the area in front of her with a burning gaze and a muted _lumos_ spell. She sighed softly, and looked up, whistling a pure note. A small stream of swirling blue color swam up into the forest canopy directly above her, then split and merged as it fell back to the earth, forming a faintly pulsing web, a protection dome. She set down her leather pack, and withdrew a thin blanket, which she promptly spread onto the springy moss beneath her feet. Slipping silently beneath it, the threadbare fabric tented up a bit, and took the semblance of a rotting log. Inside, Hermione drew a small stone out of her pocket. Its silver surface gleamed dimly with swirling colors, faint sounds drifting out of its centre in whispers. She pressed her wandtip into it gently, and whispered, "Harry Potter". The stone emitted a brief burst of yellow light, and its matte surface melted into a shining mirror which rippled when she tensed her hand. Harry's face solidified amongst the disturbed surface of the mirror, and his face melted into relief at the sight of her face and the slight smile that showed him she was alright.

"Good. So he hasn't caught you yet."

Hermione's face briefly showed a hint of anger, which was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"I find it insulting that you believe _Draco Malfoy_, of all people, could catch _me_".

* * *

He walked slowly down the darkened halls, muted steps loosing puffs of settled dust into the air. Passing a tapestry, he stopped abruptly and stroked two slender fingers along its border, causing the frayed fabric to shiver. Sharply, the hanging disappeared, revealing a dark, dank-smelling corridor. He slipped one cloaked leg into the darkened space and clambered inside.

His sleek, graceful figure was momentarily trapped in the awkwardness of the dark. He caught his breath and ran a pale hand through his silken hair. With a quiet word, he sealed the entryway behind him. Another softly murmured incantation sent sparks down the hall, illuminating the crumbling walls.

The young man took a wary step, still muttering indecipherable words in order to keep the sparks alight. The small circulation of sparks managed to light a set of downward spiraling stairs.

He then pulled a crumpled corner of parchment from a fold in his robes. Touching it softly with his wandtip, he pressed it into a fissure between two flagstones of the wall. A slow grinding of stones began, and the spiraling steps began to circle downwards, a sort of ancient escalator.

After a hesitant glance into the depths of the pit (which somehow resisted his efforts to light them) he placed a wary toe on the first step. Immediately jolted by the force of the stones' movement, he crouched in a feline manner.

As he was lowered by the enchanted stair, his wand's sparks had been slowly dimming. After a last sputtering spray of light, it went dark, and the stair stopped. Eyes reeling in the blackness of the pit, he remained still, as if waiting.

A soft voice slithered brokenly from the unknowable room; "Draco...we have been waiting.." He rose stiffly from his position, following a sickly yellow thread of light that now hung in front of him.

It lead to a cloistered, circular room that smelled dankly of mildew. In the very center of the ellipse stood a bowl.

A bowl, smooth ebony, which contained memories; Tom Riddle's memories.

"Draco- you know what you must do." A hoarse whisper in the voice of millions.

Entranced by the ebon bowl, he paced slowly toward it. A fine mist now hung, veil-like above it. It twisted into a rose- a skull- a dagger- and then nothing.

The mist dissipated, and Draco found himself leaning over the slithering memories, roiling restlessly within the curves of the wooden vessel.

Draco was reminded, dully, of a snake shedding its scabby skin, slithering out with a lustrous sheen.

Timidly, he trailed a finger along the inside of the bowl, and a small thread of memory stuck to his finger like candy floss. Slowly, the silver liquid-mist encased his hand and arm. He cringed as it began to burn, to sear his delicate skin. Smoke lifted in hissing whispers from it, and he fell into a memory...

_A young Tom Riddle sat in a high-backed wicker chair, a window to his left and a miniature grandfather clock on his right, resting snobbily on a polished wooden table with a swirled marble top. _

_From Draco's point of view, he could see how Riddle's wand hand twitched, how his eyes kept darting uneasily toward the clock face. _

_Draco could see also how uncomfortable Riddle was- he was sweating lightly at his hairline, and his cheeks were flushed. _

_He then shit his eyes tightly, and he was shaking. Draco began to step backwards as an energetic cracking began to snap in the pace around Riddle, and he found himself backed against a wall as a swift sort of wind began to circulate._

_Draco shut his eyes. He heard a small _crack_ muffled slightly by the rustling of the air; and then silence. _

Feeling vertigo overtake him as he fell back into the dark room, he opened his eyes to see a brief flash of the broken face of the clock, edges of the fissure laced daintily with vermilion blood.

He fell heavily onto the rough-hewn stones of the floor, and coughed a sputtering breath.

The million-voiced whisper spoke again: "Now-Draco- now you must find it. You know where. Bring us the clock." Draco opened his eyes and yelled: "Why? Why must I find it?" and as his voice echoed against the walls of the invisible room, he felt as if sheets of gossamer were wrapping round his limbs and circling his head, making everything cottony and soft-

a touch at his neck, and he fell still, silent into the darkest depths of night.

* * *

A/N: I like the way it ends, but to be honest, it isn't finished in the least. I may or may not finish this. 


	2. Symbiosis

There are muggles behind every happening in the magical world, just as there is magic behind every happening in the muggle world. So much, in fact, that they become one world; symbiotically attached, neither a parasite, growing into something simultaneously the most beautiful and ugliest sentient organism in the universe.

Unfortunately, there are other games being played within this little system. The magicians know of the connection between their world and that of the muggles, and by the excuse of a superiority complex wish to sever all ties. Truly, however, the magic-workers see the muggles as wagers of war, inhuman killers who do not value the soul. Some of the muggles do not even believe in the soul. The magicians are in need of a mirror; their methods of torture, genocide, and murder far outstrip those of the muggles when measuring cruelty.

Meanwhile, the muggles fight. They _hate _for reasons unknown to them, and are slowly losing faith in whatever they once believed in; and for this reason, they commit suicide, en masse.

No one, in the magical world, commits suicide, save for those inexplicably powerless and afraid.

When the intricacies of the human world were formed, more architecture than some god-given creation, the muggles and the wizards were meant to coexist, and to live in mixed cities with one another. Their offspring were meant to grow together, learn together, and eventually marry and produce offspring once again.

Through some perversion of fate and time, this did not happen, and here is the problem:

The magicians cannot live without the muggles. The muggles are systematically killing themselves and each other.

You see, the muggles have lost hope, faith, religion, whatever you call it. They are afraid to die; god is dead. They are slowly and painfully discovering that they are alone in the universe. Magic is a tool, devised to provide faith to humans so that the passing of time is not painful nor a death sentence.

In the absence of magick, muggles have created religion. When religion's shaky foundations are stripped, it falls; when faith is gone, muggles die. When muggles die, wizards die.

So, though no single magic-bearer will kill himself, the society as a whole is slowly withering by its own devices, cutting off its own limbs, spilling its own blood.

There are no separate worlds. It is all one single tapestry, and when a single thread breaks, in time, the entire fabric will shred.


	3. Lyrica

In the dusk, a white truck drove at a keening whine beside her, the driver's rosary beads swinging into the windshield rhythmically. She hummed a half-remembered tune, drumming her fingers on the dashboard. The windshield misted up as a wind heavy with moisture twisted silently on the remote highway. Evergreen trees dripped with water when she stopped at a small little patch of dusty dirt, the first few raindrops beading up into dots of mud at her feet. Abandoning the small car, she wove her way through the trees- moving with a kind of urgency she couldn't truly explain. She walked on, as the light shower became a heavy tattoo sounding on the forest floor. Still her pace continued steadily, as her hair became limp and heavy with damp and thorns pricked her ankles mercilessly. She came, at last, to a small but perfectly formed clearing. The rain was now painful in its downfall, but there was the scent of destiny as she walked toward the western edge of the ring of trees, thunder echoing in concert with the echoing water. Confused, she made to leave- what had possessed her to come out to this place- surely

just a misinterpreted feeling, She began to turn- but for a small glimmer of gold, in the umbra of the trees' shade. She trailed her fingers in the mud, and came up with a chain- a locket- with initials on it. Namely, _her_ initials. A warm sort of shadow drifted up her spine, and she felt as if she was on the path- she was where she was meant to be at that very moment, and truly, there is nothing to ask from life save for that.


	4. NanoFiclets For Your Convenience

A/N: these are a few nano-ficlets that have yet to be developed/ incorporated into another fiction, or they may not be at all.

* * *

Draco walked quickly through the dim halls, robes flapping quietly behind him. His forearm burned- it was suddenly searing. Roughly shoving back his sleeve, he looked at it- the monstrosity- the unnatural tattoo that was causing all the skin around it to seem like it was pulling away. Draco found himself dizzy after staring at it too hard.

* * *

The smoke rolled, lifting, floating and dissipating in gentle, warm wisps. The planes of his circean face, those that had plagued her dreams so mercilessly, became hazy in the turbid air between them.

* * *

His magnificent face, the planes of which plagued her dreams constantly, was twisted in revulsion at the sight of her blotchy face. You see, Hermione Granger is confused.

And crying.

* * *


	5. Gamma Hermes

He sobbed, falling to his knees in the dark, echoing hall. An inhuman scream ripped from his chest, though he knew he must pull himself together.

_But it is so hard..._ he breathed one loud breath, pulling himself up from the parquet floor. A small creaking noise alerted him, and his eyes flashed briefly as he glared at the intruder. A sliver of muted light stabbed into the room.

"Master. A notice for you."

He scowled at the mention of his moniker, and the small, folded corner of parchment drifted toward his open palm.

And he opened it.

He read the fading red scrawl on the sheet, crumpled it, and sprinkled the disintegrating fibers over the cold marble of the floor.

The last thing he had ever held onto had been destroyed- his one love- the knowledge of her living being the only thing that had kept him grounded, circumspect, _sane_.

Hermione Granger had been murdered, and a new Dark Lord had been born.


	6. The Mirror Jar

"_he lives in a house with windows shuttered._

_Takes his tea with cotton secrets, silent_

_secrets, whispering and twisting about him."_

He sat alone at the table, books stacked neatly before him- he read a small one, bound in deep green leather. The title, once printed in brilliant gold foil, had long since been worn off by oily fingers, The pages were stiff with age, and he flinched slightly at the crackling of the turning paper, which seemed to echo in the silent hall. The mottled pages of the book were scrawled on in a delicate scarlet script, clearly the product of an extensive and cultured education. The ink was fading on the title page- "A Briefe and Contextual Compendium of Truths Relating to the Nature of-"

"Sir, you are needed...in the East wing."

Draco nodded at the elderly man and pushed in his chair. The butler left- however, not before glimpsing a blur of green sliding into the young Malfoy's robes.

Draco gave a last speculating look at the room and distractedly passed a hand over the front of his robes. He then set off at a brisk pace toward the East wing.

He entered his mother's chambers with a sigh, and knocked briefly on her door frame before entering.

There was little need for privacy here, in the East wing, not since Lucius had been taken to Azkaban. If there was the expectation of privacy, Narcissa certainly didn't voice it. She was hardly ever in the Manor these days, opting for silence and solitude in the form of mysterious retreats to places unknown for days on end- in fact, just recently, the absences were becoming greater in frequency and longer in length. Draco, all truths be told, was relieved that he had an excuse not to sit with his quiet mother. He much preferred to be alone- and anyway, Narcissa was just an unsettling reminder that dust was settling on the once esteemed House of Malfoy- much like the blankets of dust that coated the books of the Malfoy library, a place that Draco had begun to skulk in recently. His latest project, in fact, was to save the knowledge in the extremely rare books from obscurity and time, and to figure out the intriguing mystery of the impermeable dust that covered an entire shelf in the darkest corner of the Library. He and a team of house elves had yet to come out victorious against the settled remains of yesteryear.

Narcissa Malfoy sat quietly, with her back turned to her son. She looked through her window, the setting sun lighting the sides of her slim neck (exposed by way of her tightly coiled chignon) and glimmering from the folds of her pale blue gown.

"Draco," she spoke, jarring her young son from his revery with her careful, dulcet tones. She remained turned from him, and he remained silent.

"I must speak of my intentions. I am leaving the Manor. Immediately. There is something of Lucius'.. something important, which I must retrieve. Expect me on New Year's Day."

Draco blinked. It was February. A bird chirped outside, and Narcissa exhaled. "Draco..."

"Mother, I understand. I await your return. I take it you are packed and willl leave at nightfall?"

Her silence indicated her agreement.

Draco stepped softly out of the room.

Narcissa, still turned toward the window, sighed and bowed her head, then stood with an impassive mien. She spoke some quiet words.

Her chambers were locked for the first time in months.


End file.
